


Of Fire And Night

by greenkangaroo



Category: The Silmarillion, Tolkien - Fandom
Genre: F/M, I repeat, M/M, Manly Men Ignoring Emotions, NO NORI, THERE IS NO NORI, fun times in the halls of waiting, nerding over blacksmithing, though technically it's manly elves, utter crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:51:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenkangaroo/pseuds/greenkangaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the other half of your soul wasn't even born on the same side of the sea? What if despite all legends and tales to the contrary, you didn't get a happily ever after- until after you were dead? A complete crackpairing. Sorry Silmarillion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. World Turns Slowly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



Being bodiless in the Halls of Waiting meant many things. 

It meant wandering through walls sporadically and without really thinking about it. It meant going unnoticed for days on end- assuming, of course, that anyone was looking for you, and had any memory of what days were. It meant that food had no taste, fresh flowers no smell, the great Weaver's tapestries no color. It was a living darkness comparable to the deepest pit that Morgoth could dig. 

Feanor had grown used to it. 

In the early times he had been watched wherever he went, but as Arda did not seem intent on ending anytime soon, the observations became limited, then slowed, then ceased altogether.

The world continued on outside the Halls. Elves Feanor knew came and went; he saw them, but they did not see him. If he felt grief it was a shadow of it, a painful pricking that mocked the emotion. He was nowhere, and he was nothing. 

Then he found the door. 

The Halls of Waiting were never the same twice and Feanor spent many sleepless nights (for he no longer needed to sleep) wandering their depths. This particular door was set into a courtyard of plain gray flagstones. It was carved from a strange black rock that changed shape and texture if one looked at it too long. Feanor drifted closer and thought perhaps he felt the ghost of a whisp of a memory of fire, and metal, and all the good things that once had been his. 

He drifted closer without thinking about it, for his ability to think- to perceive himself as I, and Me- was long since gone. Some small part that recalled wished to know what the door was made out of and if there were any others like it. Logic dictated that the answer would be on the other side of the door.

Feanor, or the bit of fea that once had been Feanor, drifted through the door. 

He found himself in a different place entirely. 

\---

It hadn't surprised Eol the Moriquendi at all when he woke up after being thrown to the sharp spires of Carag Dur and found himself sitting in a carved stone chair, in a long hall, surrounded not by the gently drifting souls of the Eldar but rather the racous and fiery Dwarven Lords of old. 

"We've been waiting for you," said Thain, who had died in Eol's arms of a great age, having taken the elfling into his house and his heart. 

"I'm sorry I am late." Eol had replied, and climbed down from his chair to join his family. Two brothers and many descendants had entered the halls before him. There was no talk of the elves who had been Eol's dam and sire; there was little talk of what had come before, not in the Heart of the Mountain. Thoughts there were always pointed towards the future.

The workshops were endless, climbing down into the earth where there was nothing but good to be uncovered. Eol signed up for rosters, got his rooms, his workshop. They were drafting something they called a 'continent' and wanted his opinion. 

Time passed. Eol thought of his wife in a distant sort of manner. He hoped she was happy. He wondered what had to be done to release her. 

Perhaps he would ask. 

He smelted metals and forged blades for elves and dwarves and men. The armory grew every deeper, ever broader. Old swords were melted down as their masters' abilities increased. Everything had to be perfect, everything had to be battle ready. 

For when Melkor freed himself again, the Army of the Valar, led by Turin Turambar, would need weapons. 

With this in mind and distantly knowing that once he had been considered the greatest weapons smith to ever live, Eol set aside what anger and darkness remained, letting it slip through his fingers. 

In the Heart of the Mountain, where the dwarves delved, things like betrayal and revenge and curses were pointless. They accomplished nothing, understood nothing. 

There was work to be done. 

\---

Eol first noticed the presence when he set aside the helmet he had been shaping. 

It was a sort of slithery whisp, floating by the bolted door and short auxiliary room that led into Eol's workshop. It had no definitive shape but Eol knew it to be a fea, unattached to a body created by the Mountain. Something about it seemed familiar. He squinted at it. 

"You are no dwarf." he said to the whisp. It did not respond. It just hovered. 

Eol brushed a braid out of his face and considered. It wasn't as if the thing was threatening, but he'd never heard of a bodiless Fea losing its way- and it had to have, to have come down here, because Eol was nearly certain that it was an elf. 

"where did you come from?" He asked. No answer. 

Eol shrugged. If it could not speak, then it probably could not cause trouble. "Well, hover over there." he pointed with his padded hammer. "You're distracting me." Eol decided he would call upon Mahal when next the Maker visited the Heart of the Mountain. Perhaps the smith god would know where the fea was mean to be. 

With this in mind he returned to his helmet and paid no more attention to the whisp, which had obediently shifted over to where he indicated it should be. 

\---

Feanor, or what was left of him, watched the dark-haired elf who dressed like a dwarf work. 

A part of him- a small, very forgotten part- began to tremble.


	2. Of Clinging Mist and Cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eol is here to chew bubblegum and kick craft. And he's all out of bubblegum.

Eol couldn't get rid of the fea.

It followed him everywhere- from the forges to the feasting halls to the deep delves. The dwarves didn't know what to make of it. Durin was concerned.

"It's not one of ours." the First Father said to Eol as he prepared- again- to return to the mortal world. "Mayhap it's stuck?"

"Have you ever heard of an elf getting stuck?" Eol asked. This, of course, led to a round of jokes that started out slightly dirty and turned into things that not even the worst slattern in a tavern wouldn't blush at. In the end, they took to calling it 'Eol's pet fea' and chuckled whenever they saw it following him around like a pup. Eol endured, because truly it didn't get in the way very much.

He did his best not to walk through it, though, not after the first time. He'd turned too quickly and there it had been as normal. He'd made to go around it but hadn't quite been quick enough and-

_Fire, so much fire, roaring all around and twisting and twining water churning with the night sky screaming-_

He'd jerked out of it as though scalded, suddenly reminded in a very rude manner that he was as dead as the shapeless thing before him, and what he felt and saw and did were merely echoes of what truly was. He'd determined to speak to Mahal the very moment the Maker arrived in the Heart of the Mountain.

Mahal saw the fea and he smiled, but the smile was old and it was sad.

"So that's where you got off to." He said to the whisp, which did its level best to hide behind Eol. "My brother was concerned."

"Can you get rid of it?" Eol asked. "It is very distracting."

"I do not shepherd the dead of the children of Eru, Khierzad." Mahal replied. "And this one is a most special case. I've no doubt if he wished to return he would find a way, but he does not and so he stays with you. Most curious." The smile was sadder. "Most curious indeed."

Eol huffed. At least he now knew the sex of the bodiless annoyance. "Why does he not have a form in the Halls?"

"An old declaration," Mahal said, "and do not ask me to tell you more."

"I don't suppose I can shove him through the door to the Lord Namo and be done with it?" Eol asked.

Mahal laughed. "No, Khierzad, you cannot." He said. "I believe that until he wishes to leave, you are stuck."

\---

"He can't just wander around bodiless. Stepping through him's a misery." Turgor Blacklock- the Second Father- looked the fea over thoughtfully. "Why doesn't he have a body of his own?"

"Coming from the elvish halls and after Mahal looked like that?" Eol eyed the bottom of his ale. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Damn whispy thing is going to keep distracting us." Turgor pointed out. "We can't be looking over our shoulders all the time."

"He won't go back, I've tried." Despite Mahal's advice Eol had gone to the door that separated the Elvish Halls of Waiting from the Heart of the Mountain and all but demanded that the wandering soul get lost. He suspected that if it could speak it would have told him several very unkind things about his mother.

"Well if Namo won't give him a body, how about we make one?" Turgor asked.

Eol stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just a small one, something he can reside in. Make move. You know, like spirits do- moving pieces of metal and the like? Give him a vessel, one that moves naturally."

"We can't create life, Turgor." Eol pointed out.

"No, but we can make a container." Turgor replied.

"....like a soulbox," Eol said, referencing a tradition held by his clan long dead. "To keep the memories in. Only instead of memories it's a fea, and instead of being a lifeless box-"

"-a creation that could be given motion by the fea within it." Turgor said triumphantly. Eol grinned. "I'll get the chalkpaper." he said.

\---

It was Something New, and many dwarves had their hands in designing it. They joyfully took up the task of creation and in no time at all there were prototypes and ideas and blueprints to be had. The general consensus was that since Eol spent time at all the workstations of the Mountain, and since the Fea did not seem to plan on leaving him, the container would have to be small enough to make it through each station without trouble. That cut out the larger designs, like deer or wolves, though they were put away for another time.

Smaller resulted in voles, birds, squirrels, and finally the one that Eol chose.

"A cat?" they asked.

Eol nodded firmly. Small, agile, annoying, something he could kick. "A cat."

And so the work was begun. Fusing, hammering, screwing, forging, starting over- it was all a part of the daily working song and the fea watched all of this in fascination. Soon they had it, a small golden-bodied cat. Its eyes were made of emeralds, its every joint hinged for movement, sacred seals and spells worked into the layer between golden skin and iron core.

"Now," Eol said, "we just have to hope he gets IN it."

\---

Feanor was fascinated. All that work, all that industry, to create something so small and so perfect? He floated around it curiously, unaware that he was being watched. If he had hands he would have stroked the silver whiskers; a voice, he would have asked the dwarves so many questions.

Instead, he brushed the skin- and was surprised to find that he was inside the cat, had become it, feeling the slow flex of his iron ribcage and the swipe of mithril claws.

He had a body.

He sat on his haunches, looked up at the dwarves and at Eol, and meowed.

"Well." Eol said. "That's better." he picked the cat up. "Come on, you. We've work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khierzad is my headcanon Eol's Secret Name, the one given to each dwarf born and known during their lifetimes only to themselves, a few select loved ones, and Mahal/Aule.


	3. He Gave A Great Yawn (And His Jaws Were Amazing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eol muses on the pains of fatherhood. Feanor sympathises, in a catlike way.

The Cat was slightly less annoying than the fea. 

He had a habit of sleeping curled up on top of Eol's hip as he rested. Of course the dead did not truely sleep, but there was a time in the mountain that was designated night, and a time that many thought of as day; whether time actually passed or not, the illusion of it helped keep them all on track. Eol's hours in death were much the same as they were in life. He was early to rise and late to bed. This didn't seem to bother his Cat, who followed him wherever he went.

Eol and the Cat did work on bedrock and volcanoes. Eol liked working on volcanoes. He enjoyed pouring the lava through the carefully carved chutes, watching to be sure that when they came together in molten rivers they would always create more land. That was a stipulation of the New World that the Seven Fathers were forever worried about- how it would grow and change. It had to do these things without help, because though no one had stated it explicitly, when the world began again the Valar would not be allowed to stick their fingers in the pie again. 

"Personally," Eol said to Cat, "I think it's a brilliant idea. The whole place will be fine so long as the Valar keep their noses out of it." 

Cat yawned in agreement and curled up atop an unused anvil for a nap. 

Dwarves came into the Heart of the Mountain and they went nearly every day. Each arrival was heralded with friends and family and feasting, so no matter how late a smith or a tinker or a scribe got out of work, there was always a celebration to go to and new people to greet. It was at one of these celebrations that Eol met Azaghal, who had been looking for him. 

"I never thought you'd wind up here." He said, because Azaghal had always seemed so salty, made of iron. 

"Wouldn't you know it, a bloody dragon stepped on me." Azaghal said. "Gave him a good hard prick in the stomach for it, though." 

Eol inclined his head with a nod. One's death-story became an important part of them, when they joined the legions of workers creating the New World. His own was often heard with quiet reverence. Azaghal's, clearly, was the kind that would get him drinks. 

"I figured you'd be here." Azaghal said. "I wanted to tell you, I saw your whelp." 

Eol frowned. "My whelp?" 

"Your boy, fool. The little sharp-eyed one, Maeglin." 

A fragment of memory came to Eol, unbidden, of a small boy with flyaway braids and a wide smile that he would eventually grow into, running to his father's horse after a long four weeks on the marches; framed in the doorway was a woman in white, who smiled when Eol swooped down off his mount and plucked up the tiny elfling, who giggled and gripped his braids tightly. 

"Oh?" the elf managed. 

"Yes, he was there. He fought well, from what I saw, little as that was."

"I see. I'm glad." 

Eol retreated to his rooms; Cat went with him. 

"Were you a father?" Eol asked Cat. The animal meowed at him. "It's a thankless job. You love them and teach them and hope you can keep them safe long enough to grow up and not die at the hands of some orc or troll or other terrible thing and then they break your heart and throw you off a cliff." 

To be fair, Maeglin hadn't actually done the throwing. Eol sighed and laid down. Cat climbed on top of him. Strangely enough, though made of many metals Cat had never been all that heavy. The general consensus was that being powered by a Fea somehow reduced the amount of weight; without taking Cat apart, though, nothing could be proven, and Cat had shown he wasn't enthralled with the idea of anyone coming at him with intent to disassemble. 

"I wonder if he's happy." Eol said to the ceiling. "He always wanted to hold a place beside his Uncle." He scratched Cat's ears. The animal didn't respond to the stimulus, merely remained with his head regally tilted. "That's my curse, I think. I was content to be a blacksmith. I fathered an elf who wanted to be a King." 

He fell into the uneasy sleep of the dead, and though he did not dream, Eol's rest was troubled. 

Feanor watched his features and thought of his own sons. Their names came to him more readily now. Many things came more readily- memories of better days. He wondered if he could have watched one of his sons walk away, and he had seven. Eol had had only the one. 

Feanor kneaded his claws against Eol's chest. The elf didn't stir and the Cat laid his head down. Tomorrow he would think more on sons. He had been a father longer than Eol. Maybe there was something he could do to ease the elf's mind. 

It was the first thought Feanor, son of Miriel, had had in a long time that was not consumed wholly by grief, absent forgetfulness, or rage. 

Far away, in the Halls of Waiting that Feanor had left behind, someone noticed.

**Author's Note:**

> The plan here is to write each chapter like I do a one shot over in my Nori fic Dirty Deeds, in the hopes that eventually I'll get something like a linear story. I make no promises.


End file.
